


Rainstorm

by potterandpromises



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It Was A Dark And Stormy Night, Overgrown Drabble, Post-Canon, Post-War, Whump, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, mild hypothermia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterandpromises/pseuds/potterandpromises
Summary: One night, Lucy shows up at Flynn's doorstep.
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Rainstorm

**Author's Note:**

> Dearest reader,
> 
> I wrote this in a hurry for my Advent challenge. Usually, I would spend longer on a work of this length, so please attribute any unsubtle errors to my productivity. Regardless of that, I consider this posting a victory, as I have managed to wrestle this wretched fic into submission. Not unlike a cat with a dead bird, this is my gift to you this fine evening, morning, afternoon and/or night.
> 
> P.S: here is my recommended listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q76bMs-NwRk&t=9678s

After dinner, a rainstorm begins. Flynn sits on his new couch, in his new rented house, and listens to it strike the windows.

No thunder or lighting so far. There’s hope for an early bedtime. 

The rain calms him. He can’t remember finding rain soothing before, even as a boy. He closes his eyes, rests his head on the back of couch, and opens them.

Peace is suspicious.

Something happened.

Flynn stands and gets his gun, listening more critically and wishing for completely undamaged hearing. He feels crazy, for a second, which is insane given what’s happened to him. The sound— the knock at his door— repeats and he catches movement through the curtains.

Murderers don’t knock. At least, the ones he needs to worry about. Still, he answers while concealing his glook behind the door and inhales sharply.

“How long were you out there?”

“Not long.” Her voice is hoarse.

“Well, you’re soaked.” He reaches out and grabs Lucy by the arm, not before setting his gun down and turning the light on. “Get in here.”

He doesn’t stop himself from cupping her cheek, from running his hands down her arms checking for injuries. She’s shaking violently, he reminds himself that’s a good thing. “Are you okay?” he asks. Her lips are a little blue. “Are you safe?”

She nods, blinking the water out of her eyes. “I’m cold.”

“Alright.” He takes her by the upper arm, (just like old times) and shows her to the bathroom. 

“Warm up in the shower” —he turns the water on for her— “and I’ll find you a change of clothes, okay?”

Hugging herself for warmth, she mumbles: “Sorry about your floor.” It takes a moment of staring at her to notice the puddles they left. 

“It’s okay.” He leaves her alone, thinking too late that he should have asked her not to lock the door, just in case, and soaks up the water with about every hand-towel in the house. Afterword, he gets clothes, multiple options; although everything other then the turtleneck is probably hopeless. With extra pillows and blankets from the bedroom, he sets up a nest-like place for her on the couch. 

“Flynn?”

“Yes?”

The door opens and she, wrapped in a towel, pokes her head out and looks at him expectedly. She looks better.

His brain short-circuits only momentarily. He gives her what he managed to find that would almost fit her. As thanks, she smiles weekly.

Not having tea or anything better, he heats up a mug of water in the microwave and leaves it on the side-table for her.

"Thanks for— yeah.”

“Anytime.”

He doesn’t touch her again— the only usable article of clothing was the turtleneck— but he hovers and directs her to the couch, the nest, a safe place, with a gesture.

And there it is: his arrogance, thinking that he can and should protect her. Now, in this new phase of life, even— he will never truly learn, he will love her too much to see straight.

"I'm okay."

Letting her words hang, he sits and hands her the mug.

“Are you warm enough?” he asks after a minute.

“I’m getting there.”

She watches him watch her. “I’m sorry for showing up like this. I didn’t know it was going to rain.”

“I assumed.” He can’t help but smile. “But why did you come here, Lucy?”

She looks away. “I thought... I just thought we should talk.” At his grimace, she adds: “Not about that... unless you need to?”

“No.”

It was hopeful, making sure she had his address. All the ex-time travelers agreed to stay in touch, to get together maybe once a week. And so far, they have, which isn’t saying much, it’s only been a little over a mouth. But he and Lucy haven’t talked much, not after those first few nights in the hotel together.

(He loves her. He loves her and he misses her and he doesn’t want her to make decisions based off one kiss, even if their shirts did come off.)

Visibly, she gathers her thoughts, tapping on the mug in her hand. “I need advice, I guess.”

"What sort of advice?"

She opens her mouth, closes it. "I just didn't think it would be this hard.” The sudden defeat, the fear in her voice cuts him. He tries not to show it. “Adjusting, I mean.” She’s on guard now. It hurts.

“This sort of adjustment usually is.” He watches her carefully, taking his time. “Winning feels good for a few hours. But then you have to live and your routines are gone. The people you saw everyday aren’t there. Your priorities don’t make sense anymore...” On the verge of tears, she stares down at her lap. “It’s hard, but it’s normal and I should have warned you. I know you’ll get through it. I— I promise you’ll get through it Lucy.”

“You aren’t alone, you know,” he adds, offering his hand to hold.

She doesn’t take it. She looks forward and elsewhere. “Lucy?” He touches her— very lightly— and she finches, pulls away like he’s burred her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... I’m sorry Lucy.”

After a few seconds, her panic visibly mutes itself. “It’s okay.”

With great care, he stands, walks a few steps, and kneels before her. This time, she isn’t scared, he makes sure of that, and... how they stare at each other.

He thinks of touch, of connection, of his hope that, whatever way she wants him, she does want him, and that night in the hotel, the closest they’ve ever been, was not some kind of secret goodbye. And he does not reach out, does not kiss her hand, does not give himself over to her.

Instead, he asks, very quietly: “Is there something I need to know?”

Her distress is gone. She looks at him blankly, perhaps a little sadly. She does not answer.

This conversation is like feeling around in the dark. “Have you thought about hurting yourself?”

She stiffens, looks away, grasps her blanket tightly.

“Okay. It’s okay,” he says and, _I’m not mad,_ he wants to say. 

He doesn’t need more answers, not quite yet. In a few minutes maybe. Slowly, he eases himself onto the couch, watching for rejection that doesn’t come, and they sit there, sharing the space.


End file.
